


The Serpent's Blessing

by Ginia, Xylianna



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gladnis Week Day 5, M/M, Post-Canon, Rated M because of Xy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginia/pseuds/Ginia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/pseuds/Xylianna
Summary: As she wept she wove a beautiful dream for them, a dream from which they could awaken without the sorrow of the last ten years weighing on their hearts. In her dream they would forget the last ten years, the memories of their many mistakes and heartaches swept away like the eternal tide.OrLeviathan is a well-meaning bitch. A Gladnis Week fanwork in which Ginia and Xy are monsters.





	1. Chapter 1

From the rugged forests of Galahd to the crystalline shores of Accordo, folk tales and nursery rhymes were told of the Astrals. Thunder and lightning tearing the summer sky asunder? Not to fear, that was simply Ramuh practicing the foxtrot. Have you ever felt a chill run down your spine for no apparent reason? That was Shiva’s way of letting you know that someone was thinking unkind thoughts about you. What caused the seasons to change? Titan’s will, of course.  Bahamut hung the moon and Ifrit made the sun burn hot and bright in defiance. 

As for the rain? Why, that was Leviathan’s tears.

Overcome with joy as she beheld the beauty of the lands of Eos laid out in bountiful splendor before her, the Tidemother would weep with happiness in the spring, her tears anointing new growth with her blessing. Sudden downpours were a sign of her famous fits of rage, and a week of light drizzle and overcast skies was a sure sign that Leviathan had a head cold and the weather would clear when her sinuses did. 

These bedtime stories and old wives’ tales may or may not be true; Ramuh might actually prefer the classic waltz to the foxtrot and Shiva probably has better things to do with her time, infinite as it is, than monitor the thoughts of mortals. It was true, however, that the Gods were real, and they indeed watched the specks of humanity scuttling about on their mortal coil from on high. Not always closely, not always carefully, and not all souls in equal measure--some not at all.

One mortal soul that was subjected to the closest scrutiny was Noctis Lucis Caelum. As the Chosen King of Light, the Astrals, of course, paid him particular attention.  They observed him as he grew up in his ivory tower, and watched as a heartbroken father strove to give his doomed child some semblance of a normal life despite the guillotine of Prophecy looming over his unknowing head. They saw him grow up to be a generally good person; one who was kind to others and who worked hard to fulfill duties he never asked to be saddled with. He had his moments of weakness as all mortals will, but when his soul was measured on the cosmic scales, he was judged a worthy sacrifice. 

Leviathan watched from afar as the Chosen King, a good man, did truly  _ great  _ things, because he stood on the shoulders of other good men. 

Leviathan appreciated the blond boy, who was the embodiment of sunshine even during the endless night. She had taken the measure of his heart and found it damaged by the cruelties of the world, but unsullied and pure. He, the one they called Prompto, taught the Chosen King the value of friendship and kindness for their own sake and not because Noctis was of royal blood. More importantly, his eternal optimism was a beacon in dark times, one by which Noctis steered his course. 

Even more, she admired the King’s other retainers, the large muscular one whose flesh and blood was offered as tribute as he protected his king, and the clever one whose fair flesh had been ravaged by the Ring of the Lucii, punished by the ancestors for daring to save the descendant whom he loved as a brother.

She saw them as children, freely and joyfully allowing the line of Lucis to shackle their hearts, minds, and bodies to the service of the prince. She bore witness to their unwavering dedication, despite the many hardships they endured. She saw how bonds of fealty and brotherhood entwined them, a fraternal love that would transcend mere duty or obligation.

She loved them for that, as much as a Goddess can love a creature as limited and ephemeral as a man. She loved the one they called Gladio, brave and true, with an outer strength that belied the sensitive spirit and keen intellect within. And she loved the one they called Ignis, who was selfless and kind, wickedly clever, and tireless in his pursuit of the greater good.

She saw the fickle threads of their Fate, tangled in knots around the line of Lucis. She saw, when she allowed herself to truly look, what their lives would have been had those strings been loosened. Instead of sacrifice and loss they would have known love; where darkness and bitter truths had been, instead there was light. 

She took the measure of their hearts and saw two halves of a perfect whole, stronger together, meant for each other. 

But she watched with ever-mounting grief as they clung to the mantle of the duty they loved, but not to each other, despite how perfectly made for each other they were. She saw as darkness crept over Eos like the tide, and with it the retainers were swept apart, two hearts that fit so perfectly together instead forced to contort themselves unnaturally to suit their current lives. 

She mourned for Prompto, who had suffered so much loss and pain, his cheerful exterior a flimsy mask that a Goddess easily saw through. She saw the toll that the fight for survival took on his soul, and how each loss was etched onto his heart as a permanent scar. 

She despaired for solitary Ignis, alone in the deepest and most permanent darkness, convincing himself that he preferred to be alone. He had long ago resigned himself to a life lived for others and not himself; it was a noble undertaking, if a lonely one.  His duty had ravaged his heart as surely as it had ravaged his flesh, though he would acknowledge it not. She wished that he, who devoted himself so ardently to the service of others, could have someone to tend to him with equal care. 

She grieved for Gladio and for the female hunter who had been drawn into his charismatic orbit, both dissatisfied and unfulfilled with their relationship, but desperately trying to convince themselves otherwise.  For her it was a desperation born of the apocalypse to stave off loneliness and fear. For him, though, it was the culmination of a lifetime spent subsuming his true desires for the sake of an inheritance equal parts blessing and curse, one that demanded heirs of the bloodline. As ever, he did what was expected of him, instead of what he truly wanted.

In war there is always collateral damage. The Astrals knew this, Leviathan knew this, even as the Prophecy was etched into the bedrock of their world and woven into the tapestry of the cosmos. In the beginning that collateral damage was vague, nameless and shapeless, an amorphous  _ something _ that hadn’t yet been determined. 

Then, as the Chosen King fulfilled his destiny and the long-awaited blood price was paid, she saw the three retainers and the hurts they had endured over ten long years, and the collateral damage from an ancient war had a name--three of them to be precise.

And thus Leviathan wept for Prompto, Gladiolus, and Ignis, and her lamentation fell upon them as they lay sprawled before the steps of the Citadel, weary of both body and spirit after the final battle. They had saved the world, but they had lost so much, more than the Goddess judged fair. 

As she wept she wove a beautiful dream for them, a dream from which they could awaken without the sorrow of the last ten years weighing on their hearts. In her dream they would forget the last ten years, the memories of their many mistakes and heartaches swept away like the eternal tide. They could rise from the wreckage of the world of ruin and they could have a chance at true happiness, a second chance to truly live, and untangle the threads of their fates. She sang a prayer of hope as her tears fell like rain upon the three, hope that Prompto would find peace, and that Gladio and Ignis would find each other. 

As dawn broke over Eos for the first time in a decade and fingers of golden light swept aside the darkness, it continued to rain over the Citadel, and only over the Citadel, washing away the three men’s memories like so much dust.

* * *

Gladio’s body felt unbearably heavy, like he’d run a marathon in his heavy ceremonial uniform while some asshole followed him hitting him with a big stick the entire way. He felt like one giant bruise stretched over weary bones and strained muscles. He groaned, eyes clenched firmly shut against the outside world. He didn’t know what time it was, but his body was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was definitely  _ not  _ time to get up yet.

He’d had such an odd dream. He couldn’t recall enough of it to judge whether it had been good or bad, but it had definitely been strange and it left him feeling unsettled. The distant edges of his mind prickled with images and sensations that he didn’t recognize or understand: an altar by a stormswept sea, Iris and Talcott in an unfamiliar room crying about something he can’t remember, a cave of glittering ice, his broadsword cleaving an Iron Giant in two, a shabby apartment and an unfamiliar woman that both felt curiously like  _ home _ , him yelling angry words he can’t hear at Noct’s back as he plunged into a swamp, and the blackest night lit only by the nightmarish phosphorescence of daemons. 

The harder he tried to cling to and examine the jagged fragments of his dream, the more quickly they dissolved and scattered into nothingness, like ashes on the wind in the wake of an inferno. Within the space of a few heartbeats, Gladio couldn't even remember what he was trying to concentrate on. A few more, and all he was left with was a pounding headache for his trouble.

_ Fuck me running _ , he thought to himself morosely.  _ Am I hungover? _ He distinctly remembered  turning down Nyx’s invitation to join him and some of the other Glaives for drinks last night, to “kill enough brain cells ‘til we forget about all this Nif shit.” Nyx must’ve talked him into tagging along against his better judgement, the charismatic asshole. 

He had a lot to do today, damnit, which was why he'd meant to turn Nyx down. There was yet another meeting to go over the details of their trip (for the seventy-third time at least), he had to finish packing and check his gear (an important job, since he had most of the survival gear), he had to finalize the schedules for the people who’d be covering his duties in his absence, a training session with Cor and Prompto, and finally a family dinner with his dad and Iris. Oh, and he also wanted to spare some time to check in with Ignis, who was twice as busy as he was, and too stubborn to ask for the help he probably desperately needed it. 

And now he needed to pencil in time to fuckin’ murder Nyx Ulric. Just great.

As he lay there contemplating the ways he could get his revenge, it took some time for Gladio’s senses to penetrate the haze of pain and confusion radiating from his poor head. When the mental fog finally cleared, several things immediately jumped out at him as being  wrong--other than the obvious wrongness of being hungover and muzzy when he’d been determined to call it an early night

First, he realized that he felt wet, and not merely in the  _ gross, I passed out drunk and have been stewing in my own sweat all night _ kind of damp, but properly soaking wet. His hair clung to his cheeks, wet and still dripping, and where the moisture trickled down his face and across his lips it tasted pure as a mountain spring.

Second, he was lying on something hard and unyielding that scraped uncomfortably against his cheek every time he moved, definitely not his bed or a friend’s couch. 

Nyx and his friends weren’t the kind of people to let a guy get falling-down drunk and then ditch him in an alley or something fucked up like that. Sure, there was that one time when Gladio woke up on Pelna’s fold-out couch and found that Nyx had taken advantage of the situation to make himself the little spoon. And okay, Libertus woke up with an eyebrow missing a few months ago, which was rude but also hilarious. That crap was harmless fun, though. The point was, he always had his friends’ backs, and they had his, and they all respected their shared duty too much to let any of their group get so trashed that they couldn’t function the next day.

Whatever explanation there was for why he was lying wet and aching on the ground, it wasn’t an innocent night out with his friends.

“Fuck,” he groaned around the barbed wire in his throat, and he wrenched his eyes open at long last. 

It took a moment for his vision to clear, for the rosy glow of dawn to stop searing his eyes and for him to swipe away the raindrops that lingered on his face, clinging to his long lashes. Blinking, he eased himself up into a sitting position. He still felt unbearably heavy, from exhaustion, but also from the weight of his clothing dragging him back down.

Drenched as it was, the already heavy material of his Kingsglaive uniform felt like lead as it hung limp and dripping from his broad frame. 

Wait.

Fuck.

Oh no!

Why, for the love of Shiva’s perky ass and bouncy tits, was he wearing his Kingsglaive uniform of all things?

It had been commissioned for him to be worn for the Prince’s wedding, and then was to be packed away (after Iggy saw to steam cleaning and probably vacuum sealing it). He’d been given strict orders to keep it neatly packed until the wedding, lest it be dirtied or damaged on the way. And now here he was, lying in a dank puddle wearing the thing.

He was so dead. His dad would have his head, Cor would have his dick, and Ignis would fillet whatever was left of him and make fancy canapes to serve to Noct’s guests. 

“Fuck,” he moaned again, because those four letters just summed up the state of his entire life.

He quickly gave up on trying to brush the grime off of his uniform because it was obvious that he was just making it worse, smearing dust and dirt around until it turned into mud that clung to the expensive cloth. Instead, he looked up and tried to make some sense of where he was and what the fuck he was doing there.

The  _ where  _ was immediately apparent. He was at the foot of the grand staircase leading up to the Citadel, the alabaster marble gleamed like fire where the rising sun kissed it, a view he knew well. 

As his bleary gaze swept the area to take stock of the situation, he realized that the rest of the mystery wasn’t going to be so simple. Because there beside him, still sprawled like a pair of marionettes with their strings cut, lay Ignis and Prompto, both also dressed in their Kingsglaive finery, facedown on the rain-slick stone, the steady rise and fall of their breathing the only reassurance Gladio had that his friends were okay. 

“Iggy? Prompto?” His voice echoed strangely in his own ears, like the distant rumble of thunder. 

Nearest to him, Prompto groaned and began shifting, peeling his face off of the ground with an undignified squelch.  On Prompto’s other side Ignis’s lean form remained stubbornly prone.

“Urgh, that you, Big Guy?” Prompto mumbled as he struggled into the closest approximation to a seated position that he could muster, propped up on one scrawny elbow, his head hung low, so that tufts of blond hair brushed over the damp marble. “Ow, my head feels like someone tried to make scrambled eggs with my brains. What the hell, man?”

“That’s what I wanna know.” Gladio sighed and reached back to run his fingers through his hair. He frowned as his fingers threaded through the familiar thick strands, but then kept going and going. The fuck? His hair felt long and luscious, like the pretty boys in frilly period costumes that adorned the covers of the books Iris wasn’t allowed to read but had a secret stash of under her bed. 

He didn’t have long to dwell on the mystery of his flowing mane, though, because Prompto chose that moment to lift his head enough for Gladio to catch sight of his familiar, freckled face, and the absolute monstrosity attached to his chin. It looked like a small furry creature got itself stuck to the kid’s face and fuckin’ died there.  

“Dude. Your  _ hair _ !” they both cried at once, as Gladio stared in horror at Prompto’s--was that supposed to be a soul patch? Astrals save them-- and Prompto gawked at whatever the hell had happened to Gladio’s hair to make him feel like the hero in a cheesy romance novel. 

It would have been comical under different circumstances, the way Prompto’s pale hands flew to his own chocobo nest of hair, frantically tracing the golden spikes and swoops before tugging a lock down so that he could peer at it in the fiery half light of dawn, assuring himself that his hair hadn’t turned blue or something. Gladio coughed and tapped his own chin. The stupefied look on Prompto’s face when his questing fingers found the goatee was photo-worthy. 

“Woah!” Prompto exclaimed. “That’s seriously awesome. But like, how? Why?” Fear flashed in fathomless blue eyes as Gladio imagined that Prompto was frantically combing through his memories just as he had done, and coming up about as empty. 

“Guessin’ this makes as much sense to you as it does to me, huh?” Gladio asked, just to be certain. 

“If you mean, like, none? Exactly zero? Zip, nada, nope?” Prompto nodded vigorously and then winced, his head obviously objecting to the movement. 

Gladio flicked his gaze away from Prompto, and the abomination that was supposed to pass as facial hair, to check on Ignis. 

He had assumed that Iggy was still out of it and had intended to check on him and gently coax hm awake, because if anyone had answers to this mystery, it was Ignis. Ignis had all of the answers, it was kind of his job to be a know-it-all, and just this once Gladio wasn’t going to begrudge him his smug little smile and tone of faux exasperation at his and Prompto’s ignorance.

Gladio was surprised to see that while he and blondie had been ogling each other’s makeovers, Ignis had woken up and had wrenched his rain-soaked and battered body into a sitting position, though he had positioned himself at an odd angle, facing away from the other two, almost but not quite facing the Citadel. 

Gladio watched, more confused than ever, as Ignis waved an elegantly gloved hand in front of his own face once, twice, and again. With a sharp inhalation, Ignis slumped forward, something achingly close to defeat wrought into every line of his body. Another gasp pierced the silence, and Ignis bowed his head, cradling his hidden expression in his hands. 

“Iggy?” Gladio called gently. “You ok there?” He was so focused on his friend that he hardly registered how easily Ignis’s gasp had reached him; it should have been swallowed up by the cacophony of noise that would persist even at this early hour in the heart of the city. The metropolis around them was silent as a tomb, nary a breath of life stirring the still air. The rational part of Gladio’s brain squirreled that little tidbit away for later.

“Gladio?” Soft, muffled from behind black leather gloves. “Is that you?”

Gladio swallowed hard. An ominous dread had settled over him, squeezing his chest like a vice. At any moment his ribs would shatter and shards of bone would shred his internal organs, or at least, that’s how it felt. 

Something was wrong with Ignis, desperately wrong, if his tone and body language were anything to judge by.

Ignis had trained all of his life to be the embodiment of grace under pressure, the cool and collected head that would prevail in the face of an inferno of chaos. He did not slouch, he did not gasp, and the elegant line of his back most definitely was not meant to tremble the way that it was at that moment. 

Beside him Prompto shifted uncomfortably, cerulean gaze dazedly flitting  between the other two. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” Gladio cleared his throat. His dread was a miasma, choking the breath from his lungs. It cost him more than it should have to speak. “You didn’t answer me. You doing ok there?”

“I…I don’t know?” Ignis’s rich baritone faltered. Usually his voice was a lilting melody, his accent shrouding each word in elegance and refinement. Ignis could make a simple  _ good morning, Gladio  _  sound as hauntingly beautiful as the finest opera. 

Now he sounded dull, broken, barely recognizable to someone like Gladio, who knew him well enough to recognize the cracks in his armor. 

Cautiously, he reached a hand towards Ignis’s bowed back. The crest of the Kingsglaive was emblazoned across ignis’s back, mocking Gladio for the gap in his memory. Gentle as he was, the shoulder beneath Gladio’s palm still shuddered and jerked away from his touch as if burned. Gladio was nothing if not stubborn, though, so he clung to the trembling shoulder and gently tugged. The least Ignis could do was face him, after all.

“No!” Ignis hissed and his lean shoulders hunched, curling in on himself. 

“Fuck,” was all Gladio managed to say, though his mind was awash with a thousand other expletives and lamentations. Beside him, Prompto only managed a feeble whimper when he too saw Ignis.

Or more specifically, Ignis’s face.

Gladio remembered growing up with Ignis, the two of them like little satellites that orbited the prince, perpetually crossing paths. He remembered the chubby cheeks of Ignis’s youth, and how they had given way to the lovely sharp angles of adolescence with features a man could happily cut himself on. He remembered a teenaged Ignis and his furious battles with acne, brought on by a dangerous combination of hormones and stress. He remembered the fastidious skincare regimen Ignis had adopted, because it was so damn important to him that every aspect of his duties be performed flawlessly, and that included his appearance. He remembered, a few years later, looking at the faint pockmarks dotting Iggy’s cheeks and likening them to battle scars, physical proof of a struggle and a subsequent triumph. He’d been so proud of his friend.

Ha! How ridiculously naive of him. How childish. How utterly drole. 

Ignis’s face now wasn’t just simply scarred, it was ravaged, brutalized in a way that someone as good and kind as Ignis could never deserve. Gods, but it looked so raw and angry, Gladio’s own flesh sparked with sympathetic pain just looking at it. 

It would have been lovely, if it weren’t the hallmark of something violent stamped squarely over Ignis’s left eye, defiling the perfect canvas of Ignis’s features. The jagged starburst pattern placed with an almost artistic delicacy over the eye, the deep rusty red colour of it, all painted pictures in Gladio’s mind of ancient heroes donning war paint before legendary battles, or perhaps an eccentric and enigmatic rockstar, using makeup to enhance his theatricality. It was fierce and beautiful, but absolutely horrible because this was  _ Ignis _ . 

“Iggy, what…?” Gladio trailed off when he finally noticed Ignis’s eyes, obscured beneath the eerily unfamiliar visor.  _ Where did that even come from? _

Ignis was staring blankly into the middle distance just to the left of Gladio’s head. Irises that had once been as vibrant and green as a summer’s morning were now as dull and gray as a storm-tossed sea. Where Ignis’s pupils should have been, there was a colourless void. 

“Oh my Gods,” Prompto exhaled.

“Fuck,” Gladio said dumbly.

A pause of several heartbeats passes before Ignis said softly, “Can you lot … still see?”

Gladio’s hand tightened over Ignis’s shoulder, squeezing all of his reassurance into him with the gesture. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah we can.”

Ignis bowed his head, chin grazing the collar of his Kingsglaive jacket. “Well, that’s good then,” he said pragmatically. 

The shrill chiming of a ringtone interrupted whatever they might have said to that. Gladio fumbled with fingers that were numb and clumsy, nearly dropping the damn phone before extracting it from an inside pocket of his jacket. Cor’s name shone up at him from the display and Gladio swiped to accept the call, grateful for his mentor’s timing, and hopeful that the Marshal at least would have answers.

“Cor?” Gladio asked as soon as the line connected. Ignis and Prompto stiffened to attention, either because Cor’s name alone has that effect on people, or they’re as desperate as he is for information. 

“Gladio, It’s good to hear your voice,” the familiar tone came out tinny through the phone’s speaker, but even then Cor’s voice was a balm to Gladio’s frayed nerves. Cor at least sounded like he was in control. 

“Likewise, Marshal.”

“We see the dawn.” There was a pause on the other line, a deep inhalation and slow exhalation before Cor continued. “I guess that means your mission was a success. You have our thanks. Are you boys in one piece?”

Gladio winced, his sluggish mind struggling to speed up. It felt like he was crawling while the rest of the world continued to march along at double time. How was he even supposed to answer this question? What mission? Why was Cor waiting for dawn?

“Gladio?” Cor asked, the slightest trace of anxiety pitching his voice just a shade higher than normal. Obviously Gladio’s delayed response had concerned the man.

Shaking himself mentally, Gladio did his best to slip into the familiar role of the soldier. He’d been asked a question by his superior and by the fucking Six, he was going to answer him, calmly, clearly, and succinctly. 

“I’m here with Ignis and Prompto,” he began. When Cor merely made a low rumbling in the back of his throat to indicate that he was listening, Glaido continued. “Prompto and I are ok, but Ignis… he… “ He cursed himself mentally, although who could blame him for faltering, for not wanting to give voice to what he was seeing. Telling Cor that Ignis fucking Scientia was blind and scarred wasn’t something that his training had prepared him for. 

“Ignis? What happened? Was he injured? Do you need backup?”

Gladio screwed his eyes shut and forced the words out, though they tasted of rot and decay on his tongue. “His face, his eyes...Cor, I think Ignis is  _ blind _ .” He whispered the last word, blind, as if that could somehow diminish it, make it less shitty, less terrifying, and less real.

There was a long pause, and Gladio imagined that Cor was going through the same nightmare of shocked disbelief that had gripped Gladio a few minutes ago. “That’s not funny, Gladiolus.” Ouch. The full name. 

“Cor, I’m serious. He has this scar and I don’t know what happened…” 

“Damnit, Amicitia.” Ohhh shit, the last name. “This is not the time for your jokes. If you won’t give me a proper status report, then put one of the others on the line. Preferably Ignis.”

It took several long, frustrating minutes, during which both Gladio and Cor yelled quite a bit, before Cor finally realized that Gladio wasn’t just being an obnoxious dick.

“Do you mean to tell me, Gladio, that you’re only now aware of Ignis’s condition? The others too?”

Gladio huffed into the phone, his breath creating a moment of static. “Yes! Are you trying to tell me that you already knew?”

“Hmm.” There was a shuffling on the other end of the line, followed by the sounds of heavy footsteps. Was Cor pacing? “Tell me, what’s the last thing you boys remember?”

“Uhh…” It still hurt to comb through his memories, like his brain cells were bumping against each other the more he tried, sending ripples of discomfort through his head. “I dunno. Same thing I’ve been doing for the past few weeks? Getting ready for the trip to Altissia. Coulda swore I turned in early, but I woke up in front of the Citadel of all places.”

”Stay there,” Cor ordered in that clipped way he had when he was being even more serious than usual. “We’ll come to you. Be there in twenty.”

While they waited for Cor and whomever ‘we’ entailed, Gladio switched his phone to speaker mode at Cor’s request, and the Marshal began to explain all that had transpired during the decade they had forgotten. The fall, the tragedy of Altissia, and the darkness, Noct’s return and the Prophecy all narrated in Cor’s deceptively calm baritone. 

All the while, Gladio kept a hand on Ignis’s shoulder, gently squeezing and kneading the muscle that was as tense and hard as adamantium. Not that he blamed the guy. This was disconcerting enough for Gladio, and he hadn't woken up blind  _ and _ confused. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to wake up suddenly unable to see on top of all that. 

Part of Gladio had expected Ignis to shake off his touch, to reject the comfort and compassion he offered. But Ignis always did have a knack for surprising him, and instead of shoving Gladio away, the man leaned into him, gloved fingers stretched out into the void, questing for new points of contact before clinging desperately to what turned out to be Gladio’s elbow.

* * *

Gladio hadn’t thought that his day could get any worse, that his life had already reached peak terribleness. He’d awoken disoriented with a monster of a headache, found out that he had ten years of amnesia and then subsequently discovered that those missing years had been absolute hell. He’d lost so much: his home, most of his family, and much of his memories all in one foul swoop.

But oh Astrals, cruel, callous Astrals, it indeed got worse. 

After arriving at the base of the Citadel, Cor and a handful of Glaives had accompanied the three retainers into the Citadel, through ornate corridors still bedecked in black marble and embossed in gold, a gleaming contradiction to Cor’s tale of a decade of waste and decay. Gladio had begun to entertain the meager hope that it was all an elaborate hoax, and Cor would wash the gray dye from his hair, his dad would jump out from wherever he was hiding, and they would all laugh at Gladio’s gullibility.

But then they had stepped into the throne room and what was left of Gladio’s world crumbled to dust beneath the feet of careless gods. 

Noctis, his friend, his prince, and evidently his king, dead. He looked so small.and fragile, pinned to his throne like a butterfly in a case. Gladio recognized the hilt of Regis’s own sword protruding from Noctis’s chest, the wound eerily bloodless. 

Even in the maelstrom of disorientation he'd endured so far that day, his duty as a Shield and his legacy as an Amicitia had remained a fundamental truth, the cornerstone of his sense of self. He ate, breathed, and slept his duty. He bled for his duty and wore those scars with pride, even the new ones he couldn't remember acquiring. 

And it was gone. All gone. The moment that the spark of life had been snuffed out of Noctis had been the moment that Gladio lost something irreplaceable within himself.

“No,” was all that he managed to say when he saw the macabre display, the theater of ruin that the throne room had become.

Beside him, Prompto whimpered. Actually whimpered, like a beaten dog. 

Ignis's fingers had tightened their iron grip around Gladio's arm, and while he hadn't said anything, Gladio could sense his desperation to know what was happening around him. There was a fine tremor that Ignis's crushing grip couldn't quite mask and it spoke volumes about how frustrated he was, or perhaps afraid, Gladio didn’t know for sure. Ignis had always been so poised and controlled, he didn’t really have a frame of reference for what Iggy was like when he wasn’t okay. 

The polite thing to do, he knew, was to quietly describe what was happening to Ignis, but Gladio just couldn’t do it, he couldn’t give voice to the fact that his charge was dead, because saying it out loud would make it real, and he wasn’t ready for that, damnit. 

In the end it was Cor who shouldered that burden, just as he had shouldered the burden of informing the three of them all that they had allegedly forgotten. He spoke to the room at large, though, his voice echoing off of marble columns and what remained of the room’s ceiling.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum, the 114th King of Lucis, is dead. He gave his life to bring the light back to our world. His sacrifice will never be forgotten, not by us, or by those who will come after us.”  Cor’s indrawn breath wavered before he squared himself up and boomed, “All hail the King.”

“All hail the King!” they all chorused.

Those assembled, retainers and Glaives alike, fell to their knees, either as a mark of respect to Cor’s words, or because their legs would no longer support their weight in addition to the grief that had settled like tangible weights upon them.  Gladio held Ignis as they too performed a genuflection, and if Gladio perhaps tugged his old friend closer on the way down, Ignis was decent enough to not question it.

And Gladio was polite enough to look away and pretend he didn’t see the tears tracing a mournful path down Ignis’s relatively unblemished right cheek. 

 

* * *

Several wings of the Citadel had been destroyed or were in dangerous states of disrepair. The royal chambers appeared undamaged, though not untouched. They had an eerily lived in air, despite Cor's insistence that the Citadel had been abandoned long ago. It made Gladio shudder to imagine who or what had made themselves at home here. 

Noct's body was wrapped in fine velvet cloth of royal black, probably a set of drapes someone nicked from a guest room, and he was laid upon the King's bed to await what Cor was calling his  _ final preparations _ , which was a gentle way of saying funeral.  

It was hard to believe that in the blink of an eye they'd gone from planning the guy's wedding to arranging his funeral. Granted, Cor's description of the last ten years sounded like crap piled on top of more shit, so maybe he was better off not remembering it. 

It was decided then that they would withdraw to the underground base that the Kingsglaive had forged amid the rubble and ruin of the once grand city. The next day they would organize proper work crews to assess the damage and begin repairs, working from the Citadel and then expanding outwards to the rest of the city. They would allocate undamaged apartments and begin plotting a new course for the future of Lucis. 

A handful of Glaives were left at the Citadel to stand vigil over Noct's chamber, an honor guard for the last king of Lucis 

Gladio ached to join them, to shield his prince--now king--even in death. Cor had refused, though. He'd insisted that the three retainers needed to be properly examined and more thoroughly debriefed. 

“I understand how you feel,” Cor had assured them when they'd all clamored in unison to stand guard, even Ignis. “But right now I'm more concerned about why you lot are missing your memories, and what else may be wrong with you. You may not remember it, but you boys went toe to toe with an Astral not long ago.” Cor almost smiled. “Indulge an old man. Let my medics have a proper look at you. And Iris will skin me and make a stylish jacket out of my hide if I don't bring you to her soon.”

That was how, in opposition to every instinct in Gladio screaming in protest, they set out away from the Citadel, if only for one night. 

They made their way through the city, taking a complicated route around streets full of rubble, occasionally using the underground walkways and transit lines to bypass areas that were too clogged with debris.

Ignis was glued to his side, fingers digging into the meat of Gladio's bicep. Apparently Iggy had learned to navigate and even fight on his own, but for now he was clumsy, stumbling and awkward, and dependent on Gladio to steer him through the city. Even when the ground beneath their feet was smooth Ignis seemed unbalanced, often swaying dizzily until Gladio steadied him. 

When he was younger and his hormones had raged uncontrollably, Gladio had sometimes fantasized about leading the dashing young Advisor about town on his arm, yeah, but not like this. 

Gladio's heart broke a little more with each step.

“Thank you, I apologize for the imposition,” Ignis had murmured after Gladio painstakingly guided him down up flight of stairs leading from a subway tunnel and up onto a familiar commercial street.

“You're not,” Gladio assured him firmly. 

“Man, they sold the best burgers there,” Prompto mumbled sadly, nodding to a pile of concrete that Gladio imaged had been a restaurant once. “Ohh man, the arcade…” Prompto sighed as they passed another twisted heap that had once been a business.

Gladio clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. These ruins weren't just brick, steel and 4concrete. They were homes and businesses, once full of life, and now dead. As dead, probably, as the people who'd once inhabited them. 

“Much of the city was spared in the invasion,” Cor murmured from just ahead of them, leading the way to the base. “The central district suffered the heaviest damage. It's not all this bad.”

“That's good, I guess?” Prompto kicked a rock and sighed.

Gladio just scowled. Every crumbling building, every burnt out shell of a car they passed...to Gladio they equalled failure. Each one represented a person or an entire family who'd lost everything, probably including their lives. Each one reminded him of how badly he had fucked up. He hadn't saved any of them. Some Shield he was. 

That burger joint? That had been somebody's business. That arcade too. Real people with hopes and dreams, all squashed by the unfair savagery of war. 

As they passed the charred remains of a bicycle, twisted into some unholy shape, he mentally sent his apologies to its owner. He apologized to the residents of a collapsed apartment complex, the passengers on a wrecked bus they passed, and all of the very real people whose lives had been ruined.

He sighed, and gave Iggy's hand a fierce squeeze, grateful when he squeezed back.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Waking up, Ignis sat and swung his legs over the left side of his bed, sliding his feet into the slippers he’d left there last night. He stood and took four carefully measured steps before turning to the right. Reaching out, he found the doorknob on his first try and felt a flare of triumph.

It was followed by a wave of despair and self-loathing.

Ignis Scientia, tactical genius, the youngest Royal Advisor and Council member in Insomnia’s long history, could manage to get out of bed unassisted. Bully for him.

Opening the door, he stood still and waited for the creaking sound to fade away. Then he strained his ears, trying to help orient his sleepy self. To the left, he could hear the faint sound of the coffeepot he’d programmed last night percolating; to the right, birdsong outside his window.

It was hard to learn the layout of the quarters he’d been given. The wing he used to reside in had been destroyed, and while all the staff apartments were similar, the small differences were enough to cause injury if he wasn’t sufficiently cautious.

Taking tiny steps, his heart racing with the effort, Ignis slowly crossed into the kitchen. He felt along the countertop until he found the sink; reaching above it, he opened the cabinet and pulled out a coffee mug.

Ignis turned towards the coffeepot, reaching out to set the mug on the countertop beside it. The crash of the shattering porcelain was harsh and loud in the near-silence of the room, and he jumped back, startled.

Wonderful. Now there was broken crockery on the floor in between him and his coffee.

A weary grimace twisted his full lips. He’d have to call someone for help. It could be sharp enough to cut through his slippers, or he might forget and go barefoot and slice open his sole.

Moving with extreme caution, a hand floundering before him, Ignis managed to find the small dining table and sat in one of the chairs. He propped his elbows on the table, leaning forward to cradle his forehead in his hands. Awake less than fifteen minutes, and he already had a headache.

The influx of information from Cor, Monica, and others was… startling. The medics had concluded that _something_ that passed in that last battle on the Citadel’s threshold had caused an injury - likely arcane in nature, for it to affect Prompto, Gladiolus, and himself so similarly - and had wiped away their memories of the last decade.

Frowning, a vague dream-image drifted into Ignis’s thoughts, a gleam of silver-white, the fall of rain.

The searing pain of his sight being burned away, in willing sacrifice for his King.

It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Ignis had to remind himself that no, today he did not have to take Noct to school.

Noct was dead.

Tears trailed down the right side of his face as he considered again that perhaps Cor was wrong. Perhaps they were _all_ wrong.

But he knew they were right. Before Noctis was interred, Ignis had the opportunity to ‘see’ him. Despite the startling facial hair and age-roughened skin, he recognized the elfin features as he slid his fingertips reverently from chin to forehead. That Caelum nose; the ears, so much like his mother’s.

Iris had told Ignis that during the Darkness, as some called it, he had in fact relearned how to fight and been a force to reckon with; though he’d spent much of his time researching the Caelum line and the Prophecy. But Ignis couldn’t imagine how.

He couldn’t even part his hair properly without help. Couldn’t be sure his clothing matched.

Ignis couldn’t cook, couldn’t read, couldn’t write.

What use was he? He, who had dedicated his entire life in service to another, couldn’t even tend to his own basic needs.

Anger flashed in place, subsuming his misery and self-pity in its passionate flare. If only he could remember. Then maybe he’d understand _why_ he’d lost his sight. Did it gain something? Did it aid in their mission?

Or was it random and senseless, like so many other things he had learned had come to pass during those ten years of unrelenting night?

Sighing, Ignis rose to his feet, pivoted, and gingerly walked towards where he hoped to find the bedroom door. He found a wall instead, and frustrated tears burned at the corners of his eyes. Following it, he was able to find the doorway, and once through it he managed to pick his phone up off the nightstand without too much fumbling.

Swiping to unlock the screen, he stated the programmed voice trigger word, and then paused. While Ignis knew that Monica, or Prompto, or Talcott - the young child grown to a man in an eyeblink, it seemed - would help him, it was less grating to call on Gladio. Gladio had been his one true friend before… the gap. They shared an oath to the royal family, and it had bound them as brothers, Ignis once thought.

For a while, in those last weeks of preparing to escort their charge to Altissia, he had thought brotherhood might be evolving into something new. Something exciting.

But then Ignis would remind himself that Gladiolus would someday need to marry a woman, to sire the next generation of his line. Besides, Gladio had never indicated he was interested in anything more than his friendship.

It had been enough for Ignis then, those random evenings eating Galahdian take-out straight from the containers, debating the finer points of the latest book release. And it would be enough now.

“Call Gladiolus,” he instructed his phone tersely, listening as it rang.

“Hey, Iggy.” Astrals, even through the phone speaker, Gladio’s voice was so rich and warm, like the honey his eyes resembled when the light hit them just right.

Or so Ignis recalled. He’d never see it again.

Ignoring the pang in his heart that accompanied another fond memory being tarnished by his disability, Ignis strove to speak calmly, words evenly spaced. “Gladio. If you’ve time this morning, I could use a little assistance.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Ignis paused, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment and self-recrimination. “I broke another mug.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Phones didn’t really ‘click’ when you hung them up, anymore - that was as true now as it had been before the Darkness - but Ignis felt the void left by Gladio disconnecting the call as keenly as if he’d heard an old fashioned phone handset slam down into its cradle.

Keeping his phone in hand so that he’d feel it if it vibrated, Ignis went back to sit at the table while he waited for Gladio. At least he had a key to Ignis’s quarters; Ignis didn’t think he had the patience to try and find his front door.

Blessed Six. It had been two weeks. He should be doing better than this, damn it.

_You’re not going to cry again_ , Ignis scolded himself. _Remember who you are, and act accordingly._

Trying to turn his mind to something more productive, Ignis mentally reviewed the information he’d been given about Lucis’s current state. The repairs to Insomnia were underway, though it was likely the city would never be the same. Nearly all technology was gone - it was a miracle their smartphones still worked, and some engineers were whispering it was only a matter of time until the towers stopped functioning. With so much of the world blighted by the Scourge, manpower was a problem. There were so many damaged infrastructures, and so few people to repair them.

So focused was he that Ignis didn’t consciously register laying his head down on folded arms and sliding from wakefulness back into sleep.

* * *

Melodic chimes rang out in the air, the most beautiful song Ignis had ever heard. Transfixed, he followed the sound, verdant gaze going wide at the beauty that lay before him. The sun beating down on his back felt delightfully warm, and he was glad he’d dressed for the weather rather than hiding himself away in one of his pristine suits. With a laugh, Ignis began to run down the hill towards the enticing shoreline before him, wondering if the water would feel as good as it looked.

The closer he drew to the beach, the louder the ethereal music sang out. Where was it coming from? Ignis realized that didn’t matter; the only important thing was to enjoy it.

Kicking off his sandals, Ignis dove into the turquoise water, instantly swept away by the buoyancy of it. Plunging beneath the surface, he was startled to hear the clarion chimes transformed into a sonorous chant.

He looked around, trying to find the source of the lovely sound. No luck. Kicking his feet, he tried to surface, to get some air, but with a roil of panic he realized instead of reaching the top of the sea, he was being drawn inexorably downward.

There was… something… down there, on the ocean’s floor. How peculiar. As the current drew him ever downward, Ignis gasped, the opalescent bulk becoming more clear. Astoundingly, he wasn’t drowning. He was able to breathe, as well as see without the salt burning his eyes.

Wait. He could see? Hadn’t he lost his sight?

“Calm yourself, my child,” the great serpent’s vibrant contralto wailed. “You are safe here.”

“You’ve restored my sight. How?” Ignis demanded, too shocked to question why he could speak beneath twenty feet of water, let alone how he was still alive. After all, the water dragon before him was clearly Leviathan, the Tidemother, and Ignis felt shaken down to his chore that one of the Gods was speaking to him directly. All else paled in significance compared to this divine honor.

“You dream,” Leviathan sang. “You swim with me in your subconscious mind. On Eos I too slumber, but I am ever watching.”

“If you’re watching… why didn’t you do something?” Ignis narrowed his eyes, striving to keep the anger from his voice and failing. “Why did you let Noct die?”

“Everything has a price.” Fathomless sorrow as deep as the sea tinged that massive voice. “Know he is at peace, he and the Oracle. They have been well rewarded for their roles in Salvation.”

A weight lifted from Ignis’s wiry shoulders. Surely, he could trust the Tidemother. It was a balm on his heart to think that Noctis and Lunafreya were enjoying a well-deserved paradise in the Eos beyond.

“I summoned you for a reason,” Leviathan’s coils shifted, constantly rearranging. The gleam of her eyes reflected off her scales, giving off kaleidoscopic, scintillating light.

“What would you have of me?” Ignis eyed her warily.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying the dream I gave you.” The song was sorrow-tinged, now, shifting to a minor key. “You seem unhappy.”

“It’s frustrating,” Ignis said, “having an entire part of my life erased from my memory.”

“But those years… were so hard for you.” Her timbre was rife with compassion. “Is it not better this way?”

“I am told, that in… the ruined world… I had used those years to good effect, learning not only to take care of myself, but to fight. I became useful. I was myself again. But now?” Ignis laughed bitterly. “I can hardly tie my shoes unassisted. I have to start from square one, re-learning that which I am told I’d already learned.”

“Why is this your focus?” That divine speech was edging away from melodious and growing shrill. “Your sight is unimportant compared to actually _seeing_.”

_Why must Gods speak in riddles? Ignis thought sardonically._

“Because our knowledge is not meant for mortal comprehension,” Leviathan answered as easily as if he’d spoken aloud. “But I will grant you some wisdom. Pray that you heed it.”

Shifting, contracting, expanding; she never stayed still. “Always have I watched the Chosen King and his Chosen Brothers. The Shield, The Advisor, The Friend. But you, Ignis. You and Gladiolus, I have watched from birth, knowing your especial importance to the King’s mission.”

“And do you know what I saw? Sacrifice. Solitude. Sadness. Again and again, you gave over your own desires, subsuming them into your service. And young Gladiolus was just as intent, having been raised to give his life in his duty.”

“Your two lives were entwined together as your orbited the Prince. Yet you never allowed yourselves to enjoy that companionship to its fullest. You should have been drawn together like the moon pulls the tide, but you fought.”

“Things are different now,” she whispered, if a mile-long sea-serpent could whisper, which was to say she bellowed gently. “You have fulfilled your calling. Now you may live for yourself.”

“What is it that your heart desires, Ignis? What is it that you want in your life?”

A pause, and then, “Are you brave enough to take it?”

* * *

“Iggy. Iggy!” A hand shook his shoulder, waking Ignis up. When had he fallen asleep? No matter. He must have needed it.

“Gladiolus. Thank you for coming. My apologies for having nodded off.”

He imagined that Gladio was waving a hand dismissively; he’d seen it often enough to visualize it clearly. “No sweat. Lemme go clean up that mess, I’ll be right back.”

Ignis heard the sounds of sweeping, the rattle as the shards were dropped into the trash. Gladio’s footfalls were heavy - he must be wearing his Kingsglaive boots, they had a distinctive tread. Two loud thumps as they were taken off proved him right. The sink was turned on - perhaps some coffee had spilled as well, and Gladio was going to wipe it up. How thoughtful.  

However, with the sound of the water, the dream he’d just experienced rushed back to him with total clarity. He remembered the incredible feeling of breathing underwater; he saw again in his mind’s eye the Goddess’s lambent beauty, her fearsome image.

Ignis recalled every single word she had spoken - sang? - and clamped his jaw shut lest he babble it all out in a disorganized torrent to Gladio.

“Here,” Gladio said, and Ignis heard a soft sound as a mug of coffee was set before him. He reached for it greedily, taking a fortifying gulp and savoring the way it warmed him.

“My thanks,” he said. “Please, help yourself.” Ignis tried to suppress a wince. He was retreating behind his manners, and Gladio didn’t deserve calculated politeness.

It wasn’t common courtesy Ignis wished to extend to Gladio, after all. It was his very heart. And if his dream was, in fact, a divine sending… one of the Six had been actively working to that end. How curious. Why would one love match matter so much? Weren’t there more important things for a Goddess to focus on?

Anger flared anew, and bitter tears formed at the corners of his less damaged eye. Leviathan had dodged his question in that dream. Where had she - and the other Six - been when Noct was spending his life to save the world? Why was a life required? They’d all been through so much - given up so much - _become_ so much more than any had ever imagined would be asked of them. Yet a mortal life - a beloved life - was still required to banish the darkness.

_Fuck the Six._ Ignis’s lips twitched in barely-restrained amusement at his own inner invective, and he took another sip of coffee to try and mask the way emotions were likely flowing over his face.

“Iggy, you’re acting weird,” Gladio said. “What’s going on?”

How much to reveal? Ignis drank more coffee to buy himself precious seconds in which to ruminate. He wasn’t about to tell Gladio that he had a dream-message from an Astral who cantankerously wanted to know why they weren’t involved. But it would only be fair to inform Gladio - and Prompto, for that matter, along with Cor and the others - that Ignis now had a definitive answer as to what caused their decade-spanning amnesia.

Well. As ‘definitive’ as anything dealing with a god could be.

“I had a dream,” Ignis began slowly, turning in the direction he guessed Gladio would be located. “Leviathan spoke to me in it. She is the reason we have lost our memories. It was apparently meant to be a gift… a blessing. A reward for all our hard work and sacrifice.”

You could have heard a gold hairpin ping on the floor in the loud silence that reigned after Ignis’s declaration.

“Gladio?” he asked, leaning forward. Ignis didn’t think he’d heard Gladio leave, but it wasn’t like him to be so quiet.

“I’m here,” Gladio said tersely. “It’s just… I dreamed about Leviathan, too.”

Ignis’s heart skipped a beat and his breath caught in his throat. With another gulp of coffee to clear his throat, he tried to keep his words slower than the frantic beating of his heart. “What did she say to you?”

“Same as you, sounds like. She didn’t want us to suffer anymore, so the amnesia was our reward. I was actually getting ready to leave and come here, to talk to you about it, when I got your call.” Ignis heard the chair to his right squeak as Gladio shifted his weight. “It was… an intense dream, Ignis.”

Gladio sounded so serious. So somber. Surely, if Leviathan had spoken to him the same way she had to Ignis… if Gladio had in fact shared the nascent feelings Ignis had never allowed to bloom… he’d sound happier. More excited. Or at least hopeful.

But this severe timbre… Leviathan must have been wrong about destiny.

_You will not cry. You are a Scientia_ , Ignis thought harshly.

Lips as soft as a whisper brushed over the firm line of Ignis’s mouth, and he gasped in shock.

Gladio seemed to take his opening mouth as an invitation, not matter the reason for it; he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against Ignis’s until they reluctantly parted to breathe.

“So, she spoke to you of… _that_ , too,” Ignis said wryly.

“Such romantic words after our first kiss,” Gladio teased.

“Romance can come later,” Ignis said impatiently, reaching out. He swore when he only found air. Large, gentle hands closed around his and laid them on broad shoulders. Ignis hummed his approval, gripping those shoulders for guidance as he moved in to kiss Gladio again. It wasn’t a tender kiss - rather, it was ardently demanding. It was hot and sharp, and had more teeth than tongue.

Gladio responded in kind, and a thrill shivered along Ignis’s spine. He was kissing Gladiolus Amicitia. Gladio cared for him. If Leviathan was to be believed, theirs was a fated match, stymied only by their shared dedication to their duty.

Ignis knew that would never change. Noctis might be gone - even wrapped in the sanctuary of Gladio’s arms, that thought stung - but they both had responsibilities to Lucis and neither would shirk them to play courtship games.

But then, what need was there for courtship when you’d spent a lifetime at each other’s side?

As Gladiolus licked his way down the column of Ignis’s neck, moving to nibble at his exposed clavicle, Ignis was simultaneously pleased and embarrassed at his lack of proper clothing. Surely Gladio could see the way his erection was tenting his pajama pants. Ignis could make his face a smooth mask that betrayed nary a thought, but even he wasn’t so superhuman as to control his cock’s natural reaction to making out with Gladio.

“Want you,” he ground out, threading his fingers in Gladio’s hair - the first time he recalled touching it at this longer length, Ignis realized, revelling in the heavy weight of it. “Need you.” His back arched and he nearly slid off the chair when one large hand palmed the lump in his pants. The sound he made could scarcely be called anything save desperate, pleading.

“Likewise.” Gladio’s voice was a low rumble in his throat, and then his lips were crashing against Ignis’s again. “Hang on to me.”

Ignis took his hands from Gladio’s hair and skimmed them down that broad chest, over those defined abs. He wrapped his arms tightly around Gladio’s waist and a moment later was lifted clear off his chair as Gladio stood. Ignis kicked up his legs, grateful that he hadn’t lost all his flexibility. He hooked his ankles at the small of Gladio’s waist, and felt the other man’s hands cup his ass, ostensibly to hold him in place. Ignis wasn’t complaining.

He unwrapped his arms, knowing Gladio would never let him fall. On the short walk to his bedroom - for surely that was where Gladio was carrying him - Ignis tore off his own pajama top, throwing it to the side. He made similarly short work of Gladio’s singlet, bowing his body precariously back so that he could trace his tongue between Gladio’s pectorals, could capture a nipple between his lips and suck.

“I’ll drop you if you don’t stop,” Gladio warned.

Ignis weighed the risk versus reward, and kept going. The strangled sound Gladio made was worth the danger.

As they crossed the threshold, Ignis heard the door slam behind them. Gladio must have kicked it shut, since his hands were very delightfully busy.

That was the last coherent thought either man entertained until the next dawn.

* * *

Slowly drifting towards wakefulness, Ignis realized two things. He was intensely warm, and he smelled coffee.

The reason for the former was likely the reason for the later. Ignis didn’t have to reach far to find Gladio sprawled out beside him - still gloriously naked, Ignis realized, as he allowed his fingertips to skim from shoulder to knee.

“Good morning,” he said, feeling unaccountably shy. Surely after everything they’d given one another last night - not to mention decades of shared experiences - there was no need for the blush that he felt creep along his cheekbones, but there it was.

“Mornin’,” Gladio’s voice was thick with the last vestiges of sleep. “Here, sit up.”

Ignis did so, and then had a mug of blessed Ebony pressed into his hands. “Thank you.”

A soft kiss placed on his temple was Gladio’s response.

The quietude of the morning wasn’t uncomfortable, but was charged with… something. As Ignis imbibed more coffee, he blinked. To be sure, it didn’t actually clear his eyes or make him any less blind, but the habitual gesture seemed to serve as a signal to his brain to switch on.

He’d had another dream. But did Gladio, too? And did his turn out the same way?

“Gladio,” he began, as his lover began to simultaneously speak.

“Iggy, I had another dream,” Gladio said.

“Leviathan?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?” Ignis’s words were almost a jumble; he was so intensely desperate to learn if they had charted the same course in this strange night vision that he did not care how he sounded.

“Never expected a Goddess to be so happy that I got laid,” Gladio said with a hint of laughter coloring his rich bass.

“In her words, we certainly took long enough,” Ignis tried to mimic the tart but deep tones, failing miserably. Mortal throats couldn’t speak with the timbre of divinity.

“But she’ll grant our heart’s desire,” Gladio said softly.

“Yes,” Ignis agreed. “But - did we speak the same wish?”

The coffee was taken from him, and he heard the sound of the cup being placed on the nightstand. Then Gladio’s hands were grasping his, and Ignis was gripping with equal fervor.

“I asked for the memories back. For all three of us. We need to know - to _really_ know - before we can forge any real future.”

Ignis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I made the same request.” He turned his face in the direction of morning birdsong, inwardly cursing his lack of vision. “Gladio, has the sun risen?”

Leviathan had been bewildered when Ignis spoke with her. ‘Why would you want to remember such pain?’ she had asked. Ignis entreated her with the plea: ‘It makes us who we are. To forget our trials is to forget ourselves.’

She had agreed that when the sun had fully crested the horizon, they’d get their memories back. Ignis only regretted they’d slept this long; there’d be no chance to forewarn Prompto.

And there was the chance that once they had those ten years restored that _this_ \- this nascent, wonderful, beautiful thing finally realized between himself and Gladio - would be eclipsed by what had happened.

“What time is it?” Ignis begged, hands aching he was holding Gladio’s so tightly.

“Sun’s almost fully up,” Gladio whispered.

“Gladio—” Ignis’s words were covered by a kiss, one that he returned with passion before drawing away to speak. “Gladiolus, I love you.”

And then it all came back.

How they’d left Insomnia in high spirits only to have them dashed days later in Galdin Quay.

How they’d searched down ancient tombs and Royal Arms for weeks, encountering new friends and foes.

How his sight had been burned away in Altissia, a punishment for the arrogance of his demanding power that didn’t belong to his bloodline.

The way they’d fought after that, and they way they’d come back together.

And then Prompto had been lost, regained only breaths before losing Noctis to that damnable crystal.

The adventures slowed to a crawl, then. Ten long years of daemons and despair. Ignis could remember every frustration as he attempted to regain some fighting skills. He and Gladio had quarreled fiercely enough that Gladio had left, going his own way as Prompto’s restless nature had already driven him to do.

Ignis recalled how it was his fault, how he had pushed Gladio too far too often, and he began to weep unabashed tears.

When Aranea had passed through town, Ignis had entreated her to help him fight, and she had. Now Ignis recalled where at least a dozen of his scars were from - the Dragon Knight had not been gentle.

Prompto had visited often, bringing news from Hammerhead and Lestallum after Ignis had holed himself up at Cape Caem. He heard about Gladio’s new partner, a vivacious woman with whom he shared both the hunt and his bed.

Work. Always more work. And then, the fulfillment of prophecy - their King had returned.

Ignis’s tears began to fall as he thought about that last night camping. Just four friends around a fire, trading stories about their earlier adventures before the Scourge blocked the sun, and most of their hopes with it.

He heard Gladio crying too, and reached out tentatively, both seeking and offering comfort.

As the two men embraced, shaking with mirrored sobs, Ignis remembered that last moment with Noctis as he headed to face down Ardyn; how they had all stared - or, in Ignis’s case, listened - as long as they could, until the shrieks and roars of the approaching daemon horde could no longer be ignored.

They had fought. It had felt like a lifetime of battle.

And then… waking up in the rain with the Serpent’s blessing, thinking it was days before they’d ever even left.

The information dump was as torrential as Leviathan’s tears, and Ignis needed time to catch his breath. He felt Gladio’s breathing even out, and realized he had fallen back asleep. Gentle fingers touched Gladio’s face, careful not to wake him.

_Gods_ , he loved this man.

But, with the knowledge restored - knowledge that included the relationship Gladio had been in for years of the darkness - would Gladio still feel the same way?

“I’m trying to sleep… stop thinking so loudly,” Gladio grumbled. He pushed away, and Ignis heard the bed springs creek as Gladio presumably sat up.

Ignis sat up as well, folding his hands in his lap - such as it was - after hastily tugging a sheet up to his waist.

“Not much point in covering up after last night,” Gladio said dryly. “Unless…” Ignis could hear the frown in Gladio’s voice. “Now that you remember, you don’t want me anymore?”

“Oh, Gladio,” Ignis breathed. “Gladio. Gladiolus. My love.” His words were akin to an invocation, each syllable a fervent prayer. “Nothing could make me stop wanting you.”

“I love you, too,” Gladio said. “I didn’t get the chance to answer you before… well, before.”

And then they were kissing, for what else was there to say?

* * *

**The Next Day**

“So you just woke up, and your memories were back?” Cor asked, disbelief painted starkly in his tone.

“Yeah,” Prompto said, bobbing his head in a rapid nod. “It was so bizarre! Like, I was getting ready for my morning run, the sun was just rising. And then, BAM! Ten years of info downloaded into my brain. I _still_ have a headache.”

“And you have no idea why this happened?”

“No, sir,” Prompto said. “I wish I knew. But I’m gla—”

His words were interrupted by the creak of the conference room door. Ignis and Gladio walked in, and Cor’s eyes widened fractionally when he saw their handclasp.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said acerbically. “I don’t suppose your memories were restored too?”

“They were,” Gladio said.

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Cor heaved a sigh. “Do either of you know why?”

“We do,” Ignis said, as Gladio steered him into a chair before seating himself.

Cor ran an irritated hand over the short fuzz of his hair. “Report,” he barked, hoping that falling back on Crownsguard Marshal behavior would merit him less cryptic answers.

He listened as they spoke in turns, speaking of dreams and Astrals as casually as others might speak of the latest sporting event or movie release. But then, these boys - men, he corrected himself inwardly - had faced things no one should have to face. Visions from a Goddess wasn’t too far fetched after watching their King be absorbed by a crystal, or facing a millennia-old ancestor of aforementioned King, or so many other things.

“So it was a favor to us?” Prompto asked, clearly bewildered.

“In her way, she meant well,” Ignis said.

Cor sensed there was something they had held back in their explanation. They had spoken of Leviathan’s desire to ease their pain, but then stopped the narrative short. He looked again at the clasped hands they’d lain on the table in clear view, unashamed and proud of their new bond, and suspected they were merely holding back personal details, as was their right. Cor was himself a private person, and he wasn’t going to pry.

And, well… good for them. Gracious knew they’d given up a lot in their lives, and it was fitting that they find some modicum of happiness after everything that had passed.

“If there’s nothing else,” Gladio said, releasing Ignis’s hand and pushing to his feet. “I’ve got recruits to whoop.” Cor nodded dismissal, and Gladio left the meeting room.

“I have a Council meeting,” Ignis said, shocking Cor by standing and making his way unerringly to the door. After it clicked behind him, Cor looked at Prompto with bemused cerulean eyes.

“You have any bombs to drop on me, Argentum? Ramuh sending you postcards?”

Prompto laughed, the sound as merry as the sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the blinds. “Naw. I’m just happy to be me again.” He stood. “I gotta go to Hammerhead. Rude to leave a lady hanging.”

Cor watched him walk out and shook his head. He rose and crossed to the window, opening the blinds. Staring out at the vista before him, he crossed his arms behind his back and admired the way the water sparkled in the massive fountain in the courtyard, the sunlight casting prismatic rainbows from the myriad, tiny ripples.

If he didn’t know better, Cor would say the water looked… happy.

Sparing a thought for the Tidemother, he glanced heavenward, shook his head, and made his way out to face the rest of his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos & comments are love! <3


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